The Devil's Own Crayons

by Theresa Monsour

  “Si, signore?”

  “Questo puzza.”

  Her smile turned down.

  Rossi rolled over in her seat. “You hoping for a crotch full of hot coffee?”

  “What did I say?”

  “You told her the room stinks.”

  “Well...it does.”

  “I don’t smell anything,” said Rossi.

  “Nor do I,” croaked Khoury.

  “It stinks of cheap perfume,” said MacLeod.

  “Oh, that’s good,” said Rossi. “Tell her that. Only give me a minute to run to the other end of the plane. This is my favorite blouse.”

  The attendant was waiting for Rossi to translate. “Signora?”

  “Sente del profumo di primavera,” Rossi said.

  Satisfied, the woman walked away.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That it smells like spring.”

  “If spring smells like a brothel.”

  “Go to sleep,” Rossi said, and rolled over.

  MacLeod returned his seat to a reclined position, pulled the airline blanket up over his nose and closed his eyes. In his sleep, his nostrils flared from the flowery scent.

  They slept until the plane touched down at O’Hare. While they were taxiing to the gate, MacLeod got up to use the bathroom. Rossi and Khoury scrutinized their partner’s movements. His face was pale and he was walking stiffly, an arm tucked into his side.

  “He should’ve stayed in the hospital,” Khoury said.

  “We’ll get him to see a doctor while we’re here.”

  “Good idea.”

  Rossi took out her cell and called Camp. He asked what she needed to work the case, and she told him she didn’t have a clue. “This could be a damn dead end,” she admitted.

  Khoury overheard. After she closed her phone, he unbuckled and took MacLeod’s seat. “Patrick’s not being honest with us.”

  “Like I said, we’ll get him to see a...”

  “Not about how he feels,” said Khoury. “He’s lying about why we’re here. Why we’re going to this little town. He knows something more, and he’s not telling us.”

  “You don’t buy that his attacker pointed him to Wormwood?”

  “Not for a minute.”

  “Why not?”

  “I listen to confessions. I can tell when people are holding back, and when they’re outright lying.” He looked toward the restroom door. “He’s lying.”

  “You should’ve said something before we left the ground.”

  “Don’t misunderstand,” said the priest. “This isn’t a...damn dead end. We’re going to the right place. Patrick has some good information, but he isn’t being forthcoming about how he acquired this knowledge.”

  The restroom door popped open and MacLeod came out.

  “We’ve been talking about you,” Rossi announced.

  “You need to tell us why we’re here,” said Khoury. “Why we’re going to Wormwood.”

  MacLeod stood in the aisle and looked from one questioning face to the other. “I told you...”

  “We don’t believe that bull about the guy who stabbed you,” said Rossi. “He didn’t tell you anything.”

  “Something else is going on,” said Khoury.

  The plane was at the gate. The doors opened and one of the flight attendants came up behind MacLeod. “Signore...”

  “We can save this row for later, can’t we?” MacLeod reached for the overhead bin and winced. Curled his arms around his gut.

  Khoury got up and popped open the bin. Took down all their bags. “Another thing, Patrick: You’re seeing a doctor.”

  “I’m finished with the hospital. I’ve had my fill of pills and needles and nurses.”

  “Don’t argue,” Rossi snapped, and took her suitcase from Khoury.

  The priest led the way out, dragging his luggage and MacLeod’s bag.

  The empty-handed Scot grumbled as he brought up the rear. “Plotting behind my back while I’m in the loo.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Rossi had been to Chicago more times than she could count. With her at the wheel, they piled into a rented Chevy Suburban. Khoury rode shotgun while MacLeod sprawled out across the back seat. “This beast is larger than my flat,” the Scot observed.

  Downtown Chicago was thick with medical centers. Before putting the city skyline in her rearview mirror, Rossi wanted MacLeod to see a doctor. She wouldn’t say anything; she’d just drive to the nearest hospital and have Khoury muscle him inside.

  As she turned out of the car rental lot, the Scot blurted a protest. “I know what you’re planning, Samantha sweetheart, and it ain’t happening. No more hospitals.”

  Khoury looked at her curiously. “She didn’t say...”

  “I’m not getting out of this truck,” the Scot continued. “His holiness might be a hair taller, but I’m considerably meaner.”

  Rossi pulled over. “That’s the second or third time you’ve done that to me, Patrick.”

  “Done what?’ he growled.

  She turned in her seat and glared at him. “Yanked a thought right out of my head. How’d you do that?”

  “Don’t give me so much credit. Figured you’d try to get me inside a city hospital before leaving for our little holiday in the country.”

  She turned back around but continued watching him in the rearview mirror. “How do you feel? Is your wound bleeding or leaking? Does it hurt?”

  “Nothing’s bleeding. Nothing’s leaking. It was a scratch.”

  Khoury: “I think you should...”

  “Not another word, your holiness.”

  The Suburban didn’t move.

  “You forget how to drive, lass?”

  Stubborn son-of-a-bitch. Yank that one out of my head. She adjusted the rearview mirror and took her foot off the brake. The SUV rolled away from the curb.

  The morning traffic was heavy. They needed to get to the extreme northwestern corner of the state, within throwing distance of the Wisconsin border. Rossi steered the Suburban onto Interstate 90 West. They’d stay on it until they neared Rockford. Beyond that northern Illinois city, it got a little sketchy. They’d hop on U.S. 20 from there, and keep heading northwest. See what the GPS had to say about it. It should take them about two and a half hours to get to Wormwood, she figured.

  Every so often, she stole a look at MacLeod in the rearview mirror. He caught her doing it once and winked at her. “Alive and kicking, love.”

  “You keep wrinkling your nose,” she said. “You smell exhaust or something back there?”

  “That bloody perfume stink. I swear it followed me off the plane.”

  “You need to relax, Patrick.” Khoury bent over his briefcase and rummaged around. Pulled out a disc and popped it in the car’s CD player. A calming Gregorian chant emanated from the speakers.

  MacLeod groaned from the back seat. “Now two of my senses are under attack.”

  “It’s soothing,” said Rossi.

  “Do you have some bagpipe music on you?” Khoury asked.

  “Are you real?” MacLeod asked.

  “Actually we should probably be listening to the news,” said Rossi, punching off the CD player and turning on the radio. After some fiddling, she found a news station.

  The planet was in about the same state as when they’d left Italy. The body count in the Madrid club bombing was rising. North Korea was still threatening a nuclear test. The World Health Organization warned that the new bovine flu could be worse than the H1N1 pandemic. The tourists kidnapped in Mexico had been found dead. Washington insiders were speculating on the president’s nominee for U.S. Agriculture Secretary. The family of the movie actress who’d overdosed said it was murder, and wanted an FBI investigation.

  MacLeod: “Speaking of your fine agency...”

  She turned off the radio. “Yeah.”

  “What sort of support can we expect?”

  “Camp said we can pull in Chicago once we find our miracle, but we’ve got to have a
good cover story. You know: ‘We’ve been tracking this fugitive. Don’t let the stigmata fool you. He’s really your average bank robber.’ That sort of thing.”

  “So the Chicago office isn’t in the loop?” asked MacLeod.

  “A big office, I imagine,” said Khoury.

  “What’re you getting at?” she asked.

  “Who is in the know in your government?” asked Khoury.

  “Is your president?” asked MacLeod.

  She hesitated. “Well...sure...I’m sure he is. Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “I don’t know, sweetheart. After what Nardini said about the violent few having members in high places...”

  “There’s a conspiracy theory,” she said. “You seriously think the FBI has been infiltrated? You think the leader of the free world would sign on with some wacko fringe group? Plus he’s one of the most popular, strong presidents we’ve ever...’”

  “Popularity and power aren’t always a good thing.” Khoury launched into another Bible verse: “ ‘He was given power to make war against the saints and to conquer them. And he was given authority over every tribe, people, language and nation. All inhabitants of the earth will worship the beast...’ ”

  “Stop,” said Rossi.

  “Is there a problem?” asked the priest.

  “Patrick’s right...”

  “I don’t hear that enough,” chortled MacLeod.

  “...Ease up on the fire and brimstone, okay?”

  “We are a collection of individuals, aren’t we?” said the Scot.

  Rossi grumbled and Khoury reached over and turned on the CD player. Even chanting monks couldn’t smooth over the bad feelings rattling around in the Suburban.

  After about two hours of driving, they turned off of U.S. 20 around the small town of Stockton, stopped at a gas station for bottled water and munchies, and got back on the road with the GPS guiding them. The green and gently rolling hills were thick with grazing cattle, and the land between the farmsteads was dotted with hardwoods. A river threaded through the countryside, and in some spots cows could be seen wading through the water. While MacLeod said it reminded him of rural Scotland, Khoury reminisced about the fertile valleys of Lebanon. A city person her entire life, Rossi had no fond farm memories.

  “Doesn’t stink as bad as I expected,” she said as they bumped down a county road.

  “All I can smell is that whore perfume,” groused MacLeod.

  “The stink hasn’t let up?” Rossi asked.

  “It’s worse.” He pulled a kerchief out of his blazer and blew his nose. “I can taste it in the back of my throat.”

  “Allergies?” Khoury asked.

  “Never had them.” He took a bump off his bottle and grimaced. “Even this water tastes of it.”

  Rossi feared he was getting sicker from his wound. Delusional from a fever or infection. During her research on Wormwood, she’d noted the location of a community hospital and was surreptitiously piloting the Suburban in that direction. She hoped he didn’t spot a hospital sign – or pull her plan out of her head.

  They drove another half mile and MacLeod tapped Rossi on the shoulder. “You gotta stop, sweetheart. I need some oxygen.”

  She pulled the Suburban over to the side of the gravel road. MacLeod threw open the back passenger door and hopped out. Leaned a hand against the hood of the SUV while the other hand pressed flat against his chest.

  “Shit,” said Rossi.

  “Heart attack,” said Khoury.

  Both jumped out and ran to him. Rossi had her cell in her hand. “I’m calling...”

  MacLeod shook his head. “It’s not my heart; it’s this stink. I’m swimming in it. It’s outside, in the air.”

  “We need to get you to a doctor,” said Khoury.

  Rossi knew they were still a distance from the hospital, and frantically worked the keys of her phone. They’d recently passed a tower, but she couldn’t get a signal. “Dammit!”

  MacLeod took his hand off the hood and stumbled down the road. “It’s getting stronger.”

  Khoury went after him. “Patrick. Get back in the car.”

  “Can’t you smell it, man?” The Scot tripped forward, his nose up in the air. A bloodhound’s snout. “Right around here. This is the source. This is what I’ve been smelling.”

  Khoury stayed on his partner’s heels. “Impossible. You were up in a plane, halfway around the world when...”

  “We need to go down there.” MacLeod pointed to their right, down a ravine off of the road.

  The priest looked down the hill. A hole had been punched through a cluster of bushes. Beyond the greenery, a glint of metal. “Sam!”

  Rossi ran over to the two men and saw the gap in the bushes. She spotted something else on the weed-covered incline: Tire tracks.

  “We need an ambulance,” said Khoury.

  “I couldn’t get a signal!” Rossi started jogging down the hill. “Go! Drive back to that gas station!”

  The Scot went after her. “Sam! Wait!”

  Stopping short of the bushes, she pivoted around and yelled. “Patrick! Stay there!”

  “Your gun!” Coming up next to her, his breathing was labored and perspiration coated his forehead.

  She reached inside her blazer and took out her weapon. “What in the hell aren’t you telling me?”

  He nodded toward the hole in the greenery. “You don’t know what’s in there.”

  “Tell me!”

  He opened his mouth and slapped a hand over it. Seemed ready to vomit.

  “The flowers?” she asked.

  He pointed to the hole. “Coming from in there.”

  Behind them, tires spun in the gravel. Khoury was going for help.

  “You should have gone with him,” Rossi said.

  MacLeod scraped a layer of sweat off his brows. “I’m with you.”

  “Bullshit. Stay. I mean it.” She turned around and marched into the bushes, her gun out in front of her.

  The first thing she saw was the chrome bumper; they didn’t make them in that style anymore. The station wagon was one of those low, wide dinosaurs with fake wood paneling along the sides and tailgate. An old guy must have been driving the thing and gone off the road. Smashed into a tree. Nevertheless, Rossi kept her gun out in front of her. This screwy case had taught her that nothing was as simple as it initially seemed.

  As she went around to the driver’s side and worked her way to the front, she heard rustling. Patrick emerged from the hole in the bushes. Face gray and gaunt, he was hobbling with his arm tucked into his side. Idiot was going to make it hard for the paramedics - or the coroner – to reach him.

  “Ain’t dropping dead quite yet, lass,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  There. He did it again. Read her head. She shook it off. “Get out of here.”

  He kept coming, looking toward the front of the wagon. “Who is she?”

  Rossi went up to the driver’s window and peered through the glass. Resting against the steering wheel was a large figure in a black robe and veil. A nun. She had to be from that convent. Rossi knocked on the window. No movement. She holstered her gun and slipped on her gloves. Latched onto the door handle and tugged. Locked or stuck. She gave it a good yank and the door creaked open.

  Like cascading water, a stream of pink spilled outside.

  Flower petals.

  Rossi spun around and stared at MacLeod.

  His attention was riveted to the ground. “Bloody damn roses.”

  Rossi forced her questions about MacLeod to the back of her mind. The sister’s face was turned away from her, but the nun’s hands were visible on the steering wheel. Stiff and colorless. Rossi tore off one of her gloves and pushed aside the nun’s veil to put her fingertips to the woman’s neck. As she’d expected, no pulse. Rossi went around to the front passenger’s side and opened the door.

  Out poured more rose petals. Not only was their scent unusually heavy – exactly as Patrick had described them – but also their odor
was mixed with the smell of death. Feces and rose air freshener.

  Something was poking out of one corner of the woman’s mouth. Rossi pulled her glove back on, reached across the front passenger seat and used her thumb and index finger to gently pry open the woman’s lips.

  Her mouth was stuffed with pink petals.

  Inhaling sharply, Rossi pulled her hand away. The nun’s purse was sitting atop the front passenger seat. Fighting her revulsion, Rossi opened the purse and pulled out the first thing she felt: A wallet.

  She flipped through the plastic sleeves. A few cards with prayers on one side and a picture of a saint on the other. A slip of paper with emergency contacts. A bishop was at the top of a list. Same last name. A relative. Photograph of a teenage boy and girl. A nephew and niece? Illinois drivers license. Rossi read the name through the plastic and was completely unfazed by what she saw. Made perfect sense. She snapped the wallet closed and dropped it back in the purse. Stepping gingerly around the spilled petals, Rossi backed away from the wagon. It was a crime scene, and they shouldn’t contaminate it any further.

  MacLeod came up next to her, his eyes focused on the car. “Who is she?”

  “Sister Rose,” Rossi said flatly.

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Tell me how you knew.”

  “I can’t,” he said, turning away from her.

  “What’s going on? What are these flowers about? They’re so freaky, they must have something to do with us, with our work.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me,” she said to his back. “Tell, or you’re off the team.”

  He sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree and wrapped his arms around his torso. “Fine. I’m off.”

  “Go to hell,” she said, and marched through the bushes and up the hill.

  MacLeod stood up and slowly followed her. She didn’t offer him a hand as he struggled up the incline.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. She tried her cell phone again, and this time it worked. She called Camp.

  The medical rig was accompanied by two squads. Sheriff’s deputies. Rossi flashed her bureau ID, pointed them down the hill and told them they’d need a hearse instead of an ambulance. While she would have preferred having her people on the scene first, that wasn’t going to happen. She and Camp agreed it would take too long for anyone from the city to get to the scene. Besides, pitching a lie to Chicago Division about her presence in rural Illinois would be more complicated than giving excuses to the local law. Camp advised her to save her lies for when she really needed the Chicago guys.